


Passion

by SarahMia95



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Duelling Club, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Violence, Quidditch, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 01:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7460907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahMia95/pseuds/SarahMia95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The relationship between Harry and Draco has always been passionate.</p><p>When they return to Hogwarts after the war, they learn that passion can run deeper than hate.</p><p>A story about duelling, falling in love, and mostly, redemption.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passion

Harry will think, later, that he shouldn’t have been surprised that this would happen. Draco Malfoy has him crowded against the bathroom wall in the 8th year bathrooms. Faintly, Harry can hear a shower running in the background, warning him that they are not alone. Malfoy doesn’t seem to care, closing the gap between their heaving bodies and finally, finally, sealing his lips over Harry’s.

And Harry is drowning, and it’s too much, and this feels like it’s been waiting to happen for years. Draco’s hands are tangled into Harry’s already ruffled hair, pressing their hips closer together. Harry leans forward, wanting more, wanting to _taste_ , but he is met with nothing.

Draco shoves him away, and without a word, leaves the bathroom. Harry is left, chest heaving, heart racing, staring at the boy who has come to mean so much.

 …

_“I think I can tell the right sort for myself, thanks.” Harry finds himself saying, and he watches as the blonde boy’s mouth curls into a sneer. But Harry knows his type, knows his kind: knows from the boys who chased him at school, Dudley’s friends when they laughed at him and held him down and took turns to punch him. New to the wizarding world, eleven years old, Harry doesn’t fully know who he is; but he knows that he detests bullies, and so he turns away Malfoy’s offer with a shrug of his shoulders and a smile at Ron beside him. He feels nothing but intense dislike for the boy standing opposite him._

…

“Longbottom, Potter, Malfoy, you will be sharing a dorm room this year.” McGonagall continues with the rest of the dorm assignments, but Harry’s not listening anymore. Coming back to Hogwarts had been Hermione’s idea initially, and Harry had found it hard to refuse her. Since the end of the war, he had had more job offers than he knew what to do with. But hunting down horcruxes and destroying Voldemort, while gruelling, had not equipped him with the technical expertise that Harry knew he would need in the adult wizarding world. So here he was, sitting in the great hall at the special table set aside for the eighth years, the students who had left Hogwarts to fight in the war – one way or another – and had now returned to pass their NEWTS. There are not many of them, fewer than there should have been, so many lost to the war.

Harry grimaces as his eyes land on Malfoy, sitting further down the table with Zabini and Parkinson. Malfoy’s skin is as pale as always, his robes pulled down low on his wrist to hide the Dark Mark that Harry knows he is branded with for life. As though feeling Harry’s gaze on him, Draco lifts his head, his eyes locked with Harry’s. And where Harry expects to see fire, there is nothing. His eyes are dark and empty, the grey dull and lifeless. Whatever Harry was expecting, it wasn’t that.

…

_The words are out of Malfoy’s mouth before Harry even realises what he’s said, but there is shouting and Ron’s wand is out, and although he’s sure she would deny it, there are tears sparkling in the corner of Hermione’s eyes._

_Later, as Ron vomits slugs into a bucket and Hermione explains exactly what ‘mudblood’ means, Harry’s hatred for Malfoy deepens even further._

…

Their new rooms are comfortable, decorated in non-house colours and still divided into a common room, male bedrooms and female bedrooms. The first night, Harry barely sleeps, his wand in his hand and trained at the four poster bed next to his. In the morning, he stumbles blearily out of bed, nearly knocking Malfoy off his feet as they collide in the entranceway to the bathroom.

“Sorry” Harry mutters automatically, waiting for Malfoy’s biting retort, his insults to Potter’s grace. Truth be told, he is almost relishing it. Fighting with Malfoy seems normal, natural, and if there is one thing Harry has been craving since the end of the war, it’s normalcy. 

He doesn’t get it; instead, Malfoy shrugs and lets Harry enter the bathroom ahead of him. Startled, Harry enters and sets about brushing his teeth. He feels strangely bereft, as though he has missed out on something good; and Harry finds he misses the fire in Malfoy’s eyes.

 …

_Hermione throws the first punch before Harry or Ron can, and from the look of it, Malfoy is going to have a black eye for days – or at least until Madam Pomfrey gets her hands on him. Harry looks on in satisfaction as Malfoy cowers against the stone, as his best friend stands up for herself. When Hermione turns back to him and grins, Malfoy is forgotten._

…

The next day, Harry starts testing the waters. He leaves his socks and used boxers strewn across the dorm room, mindful of Draco’s love of tidiness and order. Draco says nothing, just sighs and levitates the offending items into the laundry basket in the corner of the room.

Harry deliberately knocks a goblet of water over Draco’s lap at breakfast, expecting him to snap and curse him. Draco does neither, drying himself quickly with a spell and then turning to start a conversation with – of all people – Luna Lovegood.

He starts to watch Draco in the evenings, in the common room. Draco spends most of his time with his head bent over a book, or lounging in the chairs by the fire with Zabini (but not, interestingly, Parkinson) by his side.

In lessons, Draco is quiet, paying attention to the professors and taking notes fastidiously. At mealtimes, he is quiet and reserved.

Then, advanced duelling lessons are announced, for those who took part in the war and want to hone their skills even further. And Harry knows how he will break Draco down again.

…

_“I don’t think you’ll last five minutes in the tournament.” Malfoy says, and Harry sees red. It’s all he can do to stop himself spinning around and hitting Malfoy just like Hermione did the year before, pounding his fist into Malfoy’s smug, satisfied face. Because as much as Harry hates to admit it, Malfoy knows him now. He knows which buttons to press, what to say to make Harry angry and impulsive. And Harry very much doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of giving in. Instead, he ignores Malfoy, trying to forget the burning anger in his chest._

_…_

The atmosphere is very different from the last duelling club Harry had attended, all those years ago when Lockhart had still been Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and Snape his sneering ‘assistant.’ Then, the room had been full of excitable children, whispering amongst themselves and trying to guess what they would be learning.

Now, the room is older, more sombre. The people in the room knows the spells to cast, know the feeling of being in the thick of a duel and not knowing whether the next spell they send could be their last. Many of them have fought. Some of them have killed. Some, like Harry, might even have used an Unforgivable. The atmosphere is not one of excitement, but of grim determination. The war might be won, but it is not forgotten; and no one knows that better than the young people crowded into the hall. Their bodies carry the scars, their minds carry the losses. 

As they divide into pairs, Harry walks past Luna and Neville and Ginny, straight to where Malfoy stands, about to square off against Zabini. Harry marches right up to him, into Draco’s personal space, and looks him dead in the eyes.

“Fight me,” Harry says quietly, and perhaps he is imagining the hush that falls over the room. In the corner, McGonagall twitches uncomfortably, but does not move to intervene. Draco looks as though he is about to refuse, but Harry cuts across him before he can speak.

“Scared, Malfoy?” Harry asks and there, the flash of something in Malfoy’s eyes that Harry has been waiting for. Grey eyes become silver and narrow.

“You wish” Malfoy breathes, bowing once and settling into position opposite Harry, his wand arm raised. Harry mirrors his movements, and then they are dancing through the air, pairs around them forgotten as their wands slash and jab and wave through the air.

The room is dense with fighting couples but Harry ignores them all, his eyes trained on Malfoy and only Malfoy. He is a skilled wizard, but so is Malfoy, and their duel switches from defensive to offensive and back. Harry had missed this, all summer, through the interviews and the press and the mourning. His body feels alive, his mind alert, as he ducks and weaves and blocks the spells Malfoy is sending his way. When McGonagall finally calls an end to the session, Harry is panting, sweat coating his skin and sticking his shirt to his chest. When Malfoy glances over, his eyes inexplicably darken, and Harry doesn’t have time to think what that means before Malfoy is nodding at him, once, and then striding away. And it’s a start, Harry thinks.

…

_Maybe Harry shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but he can’t help it. He lies as still as he can in the luggage shelf, breath bated as he listens to the conversation Malfoy is having below him. The more he hears, the more he is convinced: Malfoy is a death eater, has joined Voldemort, and Harry had been right to hate him all along._

_When Malfoy pulls the invisibility cloak from his body and stamps on his face, that hatred surges up inside Harry, threatening to overwhelm him. But he is immobilised, unable to move, and by the time he is close enough to Malfoy to hurt him, they are both in the great hall. But Harry knows what Malfoy is up to now, and Harry plans to keep a closer eye on him in the future._

_…_

Quidditch presents the next opportunity to find that fire in Malfoy. Try outs are being held for the house teams, only the new eighth years don’t belong in a house anymore. To get around that, they are being allowed to form their own team and compete against the other houses on a friendly basis, not competing for the Quidditch cup. A few years ago, the compromise would have struck Harry as deeply unfair. But Harry has walked to his death, surrounded by the ghosts of the people who loved him before they knew him, and he thought he would lose his friends, and the Weasleys who have become his family, and the sport he loves forever. Not having a shot at winning the house cup seems insignificant in the scheme of things.

It does mean, however, that there are a host of talented Quidditch players to choose from, and competition to make the official team is fierce. Harry finds himself facing off against Malfoy for the position of seeker, and over the course of several hours, they chase each other around the Quidditch pitch, each aiming to be the first to catch the snitch. Several times, Harry nearly closes his fingers around it, only for Draco to shove him to one side, or swerve in front of him, until the snitch is gone again. Every time, there is a challenging light in Draco’s eyes. Every time, he grins a little at Harry. Eventually, Harry catches the snitch, after a breathless chase right to the edge of the pitch, Harry’s fingers closing around his prize and jerking his broomstick upwards just in time to avoid slamming into one of the goalposts. Draco is chosen to be one of the chasers instead – as hated as he still is by many of the eighth years, flying that good can’t be ignored – and as he leaves the pitch, he gives Harry one of his curt nods again.

…

_Harry knows that Malfoy is up to something. Malfoy had become his new obsession. He had taken to checking the Marauder’s Map every chance he got, following Malfoy’s dot as it paced around the castle and sometimes, bizarrely, disappeared altogether. Harry spends more time than he cares to admit staring at that map, trying to figure out what Malfoy is up to._

_Ron and Hermione don’t believe him, and he stops confiding in them altogether. He knows that Malfoy is up to something, and he’s going to prove it._

…

Malfoy talks in his sleep. Harry shouldn’t be surprised by that, really; everyone who went through the war has come out of it markedly different in some way. Hermione has lost some of her ardour for books and books alone. She will still spend hours reading, of course, but she prefers now to practise the spells as she learns them, making sure they are exactly right before moving on. Knowledge used to be enough; now she has to prove that she can use that knowledge as well.

Ron has become quieter, more withdrawn. Most of the time, he is still Harry’s boisterous best mate, loud and brash and beating Harry in another game of wizard chess. But sometimes, when the fire burns low and the three of them stay up late in the common room, his gaze falls on Hermione and the wrist where _mudblood_ has been permanently etched into her pale skin, and his eyes burn with a fierce desire to protect. When he gets like that, Harry leaves the two of them alone, and tries to ignore the way he can hear Hermione sobbing into Ron’s chest.

The changes can be seen in everyone. Neville stands taller, speaks with more confidence, and finally starts to pass potions. Luna is still herself, but ever so often, Harry sees her eyes harden as she reads in the Quibbler of another death eater that has yet to be bought to justice. Ginny is much the same as she always was; but tougher, more determined. She had told Harry, soon after the battle of Hogwarts, that she couldn’t be with him anymore. She had had time to think, she said, and she wanted to be Ginny. Not Harry Potter’s girlfriend, saviour of the wizarding world, just Ginny. Harry knows what she wants; he sees how hard she trains on the Quidditch pitch, the letters she has already started to exchange with top Quidditch teams. It hurts, but he understands.

So perhaps it shouldn’t surprise Harry that Draco talks in his sleep. Harry does as well, of course, but he has the sense of put up silencing charms every night before he gets into bed. No one needs to hear the great Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, crying out in his sleep as he sees events that he never even witnessed with his own eyes: Fred, falling with a laugh etched into his face, just as Sirius did; Tonks, eyes sharp with determination as she falls; Remus, the closest thing Harry had left to a father, bravely facing down several death eaters at once before he joins his wife.

Malfoy’s dreams seem to be similar. One night, they are especially loud, and Harry stirs from his bed, intending to wake Malfoy and tell him to keep it down. He doesn’t think Malfoy will appreciate being told that Harry – and probably Neville too – have heard his nightmares numerous times over the past few months 

Gently, Harry pulls back the curtains from around Malfoy’s bed, and stills at what he sees. Malfoy’s skin is ghostly white, bathed in sweat. His usually smooth face is scrunched up, his body shaking. His lips move, whispering “no no no please please, not that, I’ll do anything.” And then, a high inhuman laugh that Harry would know anywhere. Disturbed to hear the noise from Draco’s mouth, Harry shakes Draco awake, stepping back when Draco sits bolt upright, wand already in hand.

His eyes are tense and wild, his body clenched… it is only when his gaze lands on Harry that he deflates, tucking his wand away and reaching up to swipe the sweat from his brow. 

“Potter, what do you want?” he asks, and Harry can hear the arrogance he’s trying to pour into it. It doesn’t work; Malfoy’s voice comes out shaky and unsure, and Harry can see how much Malfoy hates that. He knows that he should turn away, go back to sleep and his nightmares and leave Malfoy to his. But something stops him. Perhaps it is the vulnerability in Malfoy’s eyes, or the way that he sits alone most nights in the common room. Perhaps it is because Harry knows that Blaise fled to France during the war, leaving Draco with no one to confide in about the things he saw and the things he did.

Either way, Harry takes a seat on the foot of Draco’s bed and watches with satisfaction as his grey eyes widen. There is something thrilling about surprising Malfoy.

“I get them too, you know,” he says quietly, aware of Neville’s snores from the next bed over. Draco stiffens, and then that cocky smile that Harry has hated for so long is back.

“Swapping horror stories, are we Potter?” Draco sneers, but Harry knows now that it is just a defence.

“I dream of Voldemort,” Harry confesses quietly, ignoring the way that Draco’s eyes widen. “I dream of all the people that I couldn’t save, of all the people who are dead because I didn’t end the war fast enough. I dream of Hermione being tortured and Ron being unable to do anything. I dream of Dobby dying in my arms. I dream of Fred’s funeral.”

There is silence, and then, Malfoy’s voice cuts through the darkness, his expression unreadable.

“I dream of him as well. But I dream of the things I _did,_ not the things that I couldn’t prevent. Not saving people wasn’t your fault. I watched people die, and I did nothing to save them. I killed people, Potter. I tortured people. I did things I can’t even speak of, because they threatened my mother and I was scared. And then she died anyway, and none of it mattered, but it does. I still did those things, and I hurt those people, and nothing I ever do can make up for that.”

Draco’s honesty is something that Harry hadn’t expected, and for a second he is speechless. Maybe it is the moonlight that is making them so honest, but Harry suspects it is something more. Both of them are so tired, so tired of fighting a war that they didn’t start, of being caught between what was wrong and what was right. Because Harry has watched people die, he has killed himself, and he has tortured. Maybe he believed he was doing those things for the greater good – but Malfoy did them to protect his family, and what greater good is there than that? Harry knew from the moment that Malfoy failed to kill Dumbledore that he wasn’t evil. The silence stretches on, and Harry says the only thing that he can think of.

“I’m sorry about your mother.” He offers, and he watches quietly as Draco struggled to regain his composure.

“I’m sorry about yours too.” Draco says quietly. With a small smile, Harry stands and goes back to his own bed. In the morning, they don’t speak of the night before.

…

 _Harry watches, desperate to run up the stairs and intervene, but he can’t, he’s trapped. Snape’s spell holds him in place, and he’s forced to watch as Dumbledore falls from the tower, dead from the killing curse before his body even touches the ground. And Harry is consumed with_ Snape Snape Snape _and anger fuels his body as he breaks free from the freezing charm._

_It is only later that he realises that Draco couldn’t kill Dumbledore, that Draco was crying, that Draco was begging._

…

Slowly, so slowly, a sort of… acquaintanceship is formed after that night. Not a friendship, but something. Harry nods when Draco passes him in the corridors. They practise Quidditch together and manage not to aim bludgers for each other’s heads. Sometimes, they eat their meals near each other – not together, but not at separate ends of the table either. Several nights a week, Luna sits down next to Draco in the common room and chatters away to him for an hour or so before retiring to bed. It’s not the first time Harry’s seen her do that, and he frowns as he watches them. Draco is never sarcastic, never cutting, but always listens to Luna and shakes his head in the right places and nods when he should. Sometimes, he even makes her laugh. 

One night, after Luna has left for bed and the fire has dimmed down low, Harry approaches Draco. Draco eyes him warily, snapping the book he had been skimming though since Luna left shut.

“I didn’t realise you and Luna were friends,” Harry says cautiously, waiting for Draco’s reaction. Draco only shrugs.

“She spent quite a few months in the manor, Potter. We weren’t friends but I… I did what I could.” He doesn’t say anymore, standing abruptly and leaving to their room. Harry doesn’t follow him.

When he tentatively asks Luna about it, she tells him that Draco took to smuggling food for her and the other prisoners whenever he could, whenever the other death eaters weren’t looking. Harry doesn’t know what to think of that.

…

_Harry feels nothing but sorry for the boy in front of him. Harry’s face is swollen, his eyes half shut, his skin stretched uncomfortably. It would be obvious to anyone at Hogwarts who he is, even with the stinging hex. He sees Malfoy’s eyes widen with recognition, and Harry holds his breath and hopes that he’s not about to be betrayed. Because he can see the anguish in Malfoy’s eyes, and somehow, Harry doesn’t think he wants to be here anymore than Harry does. When Draco lies for him, Harry breathes a sigh of relief._

_…_

Harry looks forward to duelling club every week. He and Malfoy partner every time now, spending the entire time weaving around the room, sending hexes and jinxes at each other. In his spare time, Harry replays their matches, looking for patterns in Malfoy’s behaviour or weaknesses. He can’t find any; Malfoy is always surprising him, always coming up with something new. He takes to spending evenings in the library with Hermione, researching and practising new spells to use in the following week’s duel. If Hermione notices his change in behaviour, she doesn’t say anything. 

…

 _Everything is burning, there is fire everywhere, and Harry_ will not _let himself and his friends die like this. He grabs a broom, throws one to Ron, and together they take off for the exit. Everything Harry has is focused on making it to that door, escaping the fire that Harry knows won’t stop. And then he sees a flash of blonde platinum hair, and his world slows. He hates the git, hates that he’s put Harry and his friends in danger. And yet Harry can’t leave him to the flames. He dives down, grabs Malfoy’s hand and hauls him on to the broom behind him. Malfoy’s arms are warm around his waist as they speed towards the exit, together._

_…_

The duel this week is fiercer than usual. Harry and Draco both seem to have upped their game, and they circle each other in the corner of the room, bodies tensed and waiting for the other to strike. Hexes and jinxes fly, and Harry loses himself in the moment. Nothing matters except winning this fight, showing Malfoy whose in charge, showing him _who he belongs to._ Draco sends a good stinging hex that Harry just manages to deflect, before firing back a spell himself. And finally, he sees it: a chip in Draco’s armour, a chance to beat him, finally, before McGonagall calls an end to the session as she has every week before. Draco drops his arm slightly after he casts a spell. Harry lets him cast another, waits for the drop, and then launches himself at Draco.

It’s not magic, and its probably not good wizarding form, but Harry is nothing if not unconventional. As Harry collides with Draco, the former Slytherin is so shocked that they both tumble to the ground. Harry quickly disarms him, grabbing Draco’s wand and grinning as he realises that he has finally won. He stares at the boy underneath him, seeing him for the first time. Draco’s hair is messy, his eyes dark and stormy, chest heaving from the exertion of the last forty minutes. For the first time, Harry notices the arch of his eyebrows, the gentle curve of his ears, the pinkness of his lips.

And then Draco is lunging back, grabbing Harry’s wand and his own, flipping them over so that he is straddling Harry on the floor. His hands pin Harry’s arms down, and he grins triumphantly.

“Scared, Potter?” He asks, and for the first time Harry can say that yes, he is.

... 

_He has died and come back, and yet he’s still not safe. He holds his breath, trying not to breathe, trying not to give the game away. He hears Narcissa Malfoy walk over to him, lean down, and then whisper “is Draco alive?”_

_And as Harry nods, minutely, he knows he is saved._

_He never gets a chance to thank Mrs Malfoy for saving his life; she is killed in the battle that ensues after Neville kills Nagini._

_…_

There is a new tension between them after that, a new heat. At first, Harry had thought that what had happened in the duelling club had been one sided, a revelation only to him. But he comes to realise that finding Harry defenceless under him hadn’t been a bad experience for Draco either. He begins to notice the way that Draco’s eyes linger on his first thing in the morning when his hair is messed up and sleep clouds his eyes. Draco sits opposite him at dinner, and even attempts stilted conversation with Ron, much to the red head’s horror. Draco joins him and Hermione in the library, and one day, he watches Malfoy awkwardly apologise to his friend. It’s not enough to erase years of insults, but it’s something, and Hermione is slightly warmer towards him after that.

He and Harry take to practising quidditch alone, taking it in turns to play seeker and chaser. After practises, they shower in adjacent cubicles in the 8th year dormitory, Harry blushing as Draco rakes his eyes over him as he undresses.

When they finally kiss, it is in that bathroom. Draco slams Harry against the wall, lowering his head, kissing Harry, _finally._ It is passionate, and hard, teeth and lips and hands until Draco pulls away.

…

_After the battle, Draco sits on the steps outside of the main hall. Harry sees him as he leaves with the Weasleys. Draco is uncomfortable, alone, as Lucius has already surrendered himself to Ministry custody. He cradles his mother’s body in his arms and sobs, and Harry is reminded that everyone has lost someone in this war, no matter which side they were fighting on._

_…_

He confronts Draco the next day, Gryffindor courage fuelling him as he corners Draco in the room they share.

“We need to talk,” Harry says lowly, locking the door so that Neville won’t be able to come in and interrupt.

“Harry,” Draco says and that’s it, that’s all it takes. Harry is kissing him again, and with a groan, Draco kisses him back.

“Harry, wait,” Draco pants, and reluctantly, Harry pulls back. There is uncertainty in Draco’s eyes, something that Harry hadn’t expected to see.

“They… people will talk, Harry. Idiots, the lot of them, but still…” Draco trails off. Harry knows what he means; people will talk. The ex-death eater, dating the Boy-Who-Lived. But Harry doesn’t want to be the Boy-Who-Lived. He’s done enough for the wizarding world, and if he wants to shack up with Draco Malfoy then nothing is going to stop him.

Wordlessly, he shrugs.

 “They’ll talk whatever I do. Might as well give them something good to talk about.” And then they are kissing again, any objections dying on Draco’s lips.

 


End file.
